


The Shadow and the Smith

by Mertiya



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blatant Symbolism What Blatant Symbolism, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, I'm so sorry Tyelpe, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, Tyelpe's life is a nightmare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25831420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: Celebrimbor faces Sauron on the steps of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.
Relationships: Annatar/Celebrimbor | Telperinquar, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 19
Kudos: 59





	The Shadow and the Smith

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly me trying to get a feel for the ship before I punt it into the realms of AU.

Celebrimbor knows fire as well as he knows his own hand—its whims and its moods, the different colors that he needs to coax out of it to mold and shape metal as he desires. Other folk fear fire—its destruction, its consumption, the danger inherent in its ability to break out of one Elf’s control. Celebrimbor never has. Burns he has suffered—many—some worse than others, and at times he has lost things to a poorly-tended fire. But at the end of the day, fire has always been his friend, warming hands and heart.

It is no longer his friend.

Flames higher than he is tall are licking at the walls of Ost-in-Edhil. Screams and wails flood the city, as Elves and Dwarves flee in terror. Some are fighting. Celebrimbor stands on the steps of the Mírdain, a sword gripped tightly in one hand. He will defend it to the death if he has to, and he expects that he will have to.

He sees the gleam of firelight on metal before he understands what it is. Annatar—no, _Sauron_ —is striding toward him through the street, his deceptively delicate-looking chain shirt reflecting the flames, his long, red-gold hair swirling about his shoulders. He wears no helm, but a sharply-pointed crown wrought of iron, with slender, deadly-looking spikes. Even now, dripping with incarnadine blood, he is beauty incarnate.

Celebrimbor tightens his grip on the sword. It is not fear he feels nor anger but an impossible weariness. He readies himself, staring at all those sharp points—sharp spikes, sharp teeth, sharp smile—laid bare in a way that was never true of Annatar, and he is ready to counter Sauron’s first brutal sword strike. 

There are no words exchanged. Sauron does not demand that he stand aside, and Celebrimbor does not plead. There is just the clash of metal upon metal as they attack, parry, block—the sounds of the forge writ large and set to a symphony of terror. Sauron’s attack is precise and controlled, like everything about him. And yet despite his advantages as a Maia and a warrior, Celebrimbor holds him at bay, fighting with the strength of utter desperation. He will not set foot in the Mírdain while Celebrimbor breathes. He will not pass.

The stench of sweat and blood and ash fills the air, and, in his frenzy, Celebrimbor drives Sauron back. His opponent misses his footing on the steps and falls, surprise etched onto his face. His sword clatters as it drops and spins to a halt two inches out of reach, and he hits the side wall with enough force that Celebrimbor is certain that, Maia or not, it must have sent him half-dizzy. Elation soaks through the Elf’s veins. _Not while I live, Defiler!_

He moves to thrust the sword into Sauron’s unprotected throat, and wide golden eyes blink up at him. “Tyelpe—” Annatar gasps, his voice pleading. “Please—don’t—”

Red-gold eyes and red-gold hair; Celebrimbor’s hands sinking into that hair that carries the warmth and safety of the forge. The sword trembles in his hand. Too late, he recovers himself. Too late to stop the lunge that Sauron makes to regain his sword and bring it sweeping up, the point traveling across the back of Celebrimbor’s hand. Blood sprays in its wake; fiery pain follows. Celebrimbor hears a pained cry in his ears, and then he hears the clatter of metal. He looks down, dumbfounded, to find that his sword is on the ground by his feet. As he reaches for it, something strikes him in the stomach, doubling him over with pain.

The next moment, there is a hand about his throat, cruel spikes digging in, and his back is slammed into the fire-warmed stones behind him. Annatar looms above him, with a smile like a gash cutting through his lovely face, and he is _laughing._ “So predictable, Tyelpe,” he murmurs, and the affection in his voice, the affection in that diminutive, is so at odds with his grinning demeanor that Celebrimbor wants to throw up.

“Annatar—” his whispers. “No. Don’t do this.”

For half an instant, something flickers behind those golden eyes, the flame dancing back from the surrounding stone. And then it is gone, and the metal gauntlet at Celebrimbor’s throat flares white-hot. Someone is screaming. Celebrimbor thinks it may be him. Annatar—Sauron— _Annatar_ —crushes their lips together, biting until Celebrimbor’s blood spills across his own tongue. 

“Yes,” he whispers in Celebrimbor’s ear, pulling back, “Scream for me, beloved.”


End file.
